Joe rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s another question. Listen, I think there’s something going on out here. It might not have anything to do with the girls, but I think you’ve got a problem with poaching.”
“That’s nothing new,” Spencer said. He eyed him. “What makes you say that?”
Joe made up his mind; might as well be killed for a sheep as well as a lamb, he thought. “I think I better show you.”
Spencer and two other officers drove with him back to the little house, with Joe describing how he saw Garson pick up the two gun cases. At his first sight of the backyard abattoir and the silent skulls lined on top of the fence, Spencer began making phone calls for a crime scene unit. The broken window caught his attention, and he squatted next to it, shining a flashlight inside. Joe kept silent about that, but the nausea came back again, and this time he had the sense that he was snared in a trap of his own making. He wondered how long it would be before they figured out that he broke into the house.
“All right,” Spencer said, pocketing his flashlight and standing creakily. “We’ll take it from here. But if you come out here again, I will lock you up. Stay away from this house, and stay away from Garson. We will take care of him.” Joe nodded, and Spencer added, unexpectedly, “This sure as hell makes more sense than she stole the horse, kidnapped the girl, and headed for Canada.”
“I think I like the other way better,” Joe said. He met Spencer’s eyes. “Better chance of them still being alive.”
Spencer surprised him again. “I know,” he said.
It was almost dark by the time Joe got back to his place in Danbury, a garage apartment near the university. The small efficiency suited Joe just fine. He stacked his few books near his mattress on the floor, and a lamp was plugged in by his pillow. He had three boxes for clothes. He put his one suit in the closet just inside the entrance. On the other side of the room from his bed the landlord had installed a small three-burner stove and a half-size refrigerator.
Joe sat in the ladder-back chair that came with the place to take off his beat-up old boots and toss them in the corner. He made himself a sandwich at the little stove, rummaged for a beer in the fridge, and padded over to his bed.
He took a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of beer. The long day began to catch up with him, and he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, wondering how someone could get lost in the woods about a quarter mile from the highway.
Eleven
Sunlight and shadows dappled the dirt track through the forest. A sharp wind made the light patterns ripple across the narrow path as it wound along a narrow creek bed, now drying to an end-of-summer trickle. Lynn and Crae turned off the trail down to the water, dismounted, and let their horses drink. Despite the sunshine, the air was cold, and Lynn hunched in her vest, grateful for its synthetic warmth. It wouldn’t do much against real fall weather though. She wondered how much longer they would wander the forest. I want to go home, she thought, holding her vest closed at her throat with one hand. I don’t want to stay here anymore.
But the Wood stubbornly failed to deliver up the gordath for her, even as the earthquakes happened almost daily. The forest floor was littered with tree branches, and once the trail was gouged with a series of long, jagged cracks.
As their horses lifted their dripping muzzles, Crae looked around, his forehead creasing. His beard had come in dark and grizzled, flecks of gray in the brown. Handsome guy, Lynn thought, and immediately scolded herself. Stop that. Stop that immediately.
“What is it?” she asked. He glanced at her, and she felt sudden butterflies. She ducked her head and busied herself with Silk’s bridle.
“I thought we would find a way to the gordath to get you home safely before I rode to Trieve. But the more we ride in these woods, the more I think they have become too dangerous for travelers. I think we need to go to Trieve at once and bring the guardian back here.”
Panic welled up, and she stuffed it back down. “Well,” she said evenly. “That’s not good. Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you are anxious to go home.”
“Yes. Just a bit,” she said caustically. She sighed. “How much farther to Trieve?”
“Five days, if we push the horses.”
They had already been on the road for three days, and the damn forest showed no signs of ending. He saved my life, and he wants to help me get home, she told herself. She believed that, she understood that. But her understanding was wearing thin, and it became harder to believe that she would ever get home.
“Look, Crae,” she said, trying to keep her voice from fumbling. “Maybe this is where we split up. You go on to Trieve, and I try to get myself lost again, which is how I ended up here in the first place.”
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to parse her words. She looked at him back, willing him to see that she was serious, that she needed to go home. When he spoke, he spoke with care.
“I do not doubt that you can handle yourself,” he said. “But this forest is more dangerous now than anything you can think of. All those stories you have about the treachery of Gordath Wood are nothing compared to the stories we have of its malevolence. Travelers do not just lose their way; they are forced to lose their way, and they are driven mad by the forest’s wiles. Even a half month ago I would have let you travel this wood alone, but not now.”
A sudden gust of wind blew up the trail at them, scattering leaves and making the horses jerk up their heads. It suddenly got very cold; the sun had gone behind the clouds while they conversed. Crae grinned a bit apologetically. “You see,” he said. “The forest god himself agrees with me.”
The forest god . . . She shivered. “All right,” she said out loud. “You—and he—convinced me. For now. But I reserve the right to duck through a gordath if one comes our way.”
He took a breath as if to protest but instead bowed his head with that same courtliness. Her butterflies started up again, and she tried to ignore them. Crae swung the reins over Briar’s head, checked the horse’s girth, and tugged at the straps that held his sword on one side and his crossbow and bolts on the other.
She paused in the process of checking her own horse’s saddle. “Expecting trouble?”
He paused and glanced at her. “I take care only. The smallholders who live out here are loyal, but they are proud and dislike strangers. Still, I don’t expect danger, if that worries you.”
“It does, a little.” She shook her head. Not that her world was worry-free; keeping expensive horses free from harm and their wealthy owners happy had her tossing and turning at nights. But those weren’t life-or-death decisions.
She prepared to mount when a bit of sunlight flashed along the creek. “What’s that?” she said, pointing. A tangle of something drifted in a shallow pool where the water lapped the muddy bank. Sunlight reflected off metal. Before Crae could answer, she tossed him Silk’s reins. Lynn slithered back down the bank and sloshed toward the little eddy, picking her way over tree roots and boulders.
With a sinking heart, she recognized it. She had to struggle to get around the rocks and over the deadwood, and she stepped in the creek once or twice, splashing her skirt up to her knees. Finally she made it to the pool and fished out the tangle of leather and metal, holding it up to Crae.
It was Dungiven’s bridle.
An hour later the trail had veered away from the small stream, and the trees closed over them, casting a welcome gloom. The trail widened, but the terrain turned treacherous, winding over roots and around rocks. They dismounted and led their horses. Lynn’s sweat chilled in the cold air. Crae stopped in front of her.
She drew up next to him. “What—” she started. Up ahead the trail crossed a dry ravine running downhill toward the other creek. A small stone bridge arched over it, the first sign of civilization.
Had arched over it would be a better description, she thought. The little bridge had cracked and fallen into the dry
creek. She scanned the wood nervously. “Crae,” she said, and pointed. A massive tree lay uprooted across the ravine, the drying mud clinging to its root system. Lynn could smell rich loam from the forest floor. One of the branches had broken at the trunk, the exposed wood a pale yellow scar. Now she could see that the ground had broken up into waves, rising in humps and spreading out through the woods. Trees leaned everywhere, supporting each other like drunkards.
“Come,” Crae said. They led their horses down and up the little ravine, skirting the ruined bridge and the tree. As they neared the smallholding, the signs of destruction came faster. Broken trees. Downed stone walls and fencing. By the time they saw the tumbled houses, the devastation became clear.
The little village lay in ruins.
The horses snorted and balked, so they left them back at the little bridge, tied for real this time; Lynn didn’t trust their training in these circumstances. They were spooked enough as it was.
It must have happened at night, she thought. They didn’t have a chance. She heard a noise and turned; Crae on hands and knees, peering under a pile of broken stone and wooden shingle.
“Is there anyone alive?!”
He got up, strain around his eyes. He looked sick. “No. I thought I heard—” He stopped that thought.
It’s a forest. Plenty of scavengers. She turned abruptly and supported herself against a tree, swallowing hard, willing herself not to throw up. When she could talk again, she said, “We have to do something. We have to bury them.”
“No—we need to let them lie for now. But we need to ask the forest god to protect them. Help me.”
She helped him gather stones and together they built a rough cairn. Crae kissed stone after stone before placing it on the pile until his lips were covered with dust. It was a rough, uneven pile of clumsy stone, like a child’s tower, but somehow, they had placed it in a patch of sunlight that pierced the forest’s canopy. At its feet were a few of the first red leaves of autumn.
Crae bowed his head and whispered a few words she could not understand. Unbidden, the Lord’s Prayer came to her, and she recited it under her breath and crossed herself.
Movement caught her eye, as a silent leaf fell and landed on the cairn, resting perfectly on the top. The sunlight beamed stronger, and the little clearing brightened with a clean, pale light.
It was perfectly still. A peacefulness stole through her heart.
The sunlight faded, and the clearing dimmed, but the peace remained.
Lynn started to cry. No, she told herself. I don’t cry. I don’t. Crae turned her toward him. She let herself be folded into his arms and wept into her hands, pressed tight against his chest, his chin on top of her head.
At length he drew back.
“Lynn. Lynna. We have to go.”
She looked at him. His eyes were wet, too, his mouth pressed thin. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“This is because of the gordath, isn’t it.”
“I think so.” His voice was clipped.
“Well, we have to stop this.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll come with you. I’ll come with you to Trieve to find the guardian. We have to stop this for good.”
Before he could say anything, the ground began to rumble, even as a steady roar rolled through the sky.
Is that a helicopter? Lynn whipped around, trying to see through the forest canopy. The ground surged, and they grabbed hold of one another.
“Where is it?” she shouted. “Can you see it?”
“Run!” He shouted. “Now!” He pulled at her arm, but she shrugged him off, still searching for the roar. The ground swelled, lifting them up in a wave of dirt, earth and roots breaking apart with a wet and ripping sound. Crae went down, and Lynn fell on top of him. The ground threw them upward, and they clung together on the wave of dirt and brush. Lynn got a mouthful of forest floor and choked and spat.
Overhead a tree began its slow fall to the earth, plowing through its mates. Lynn ducked reflexively, flattening herself against Crae, and he rolled both of them over as the tree trunk slammed near where they had been, its branches thrashing.
The shaking slowed and faded. She could hear nothing but the thudding of her heart and his. She lay against him, breathing hard, her muscles strengthless. They were both covered with dirt and debris. She willed her breathing to slow. My God, she thought. My God. After a moment she raised her head, brushing away the dirt with a shaking hand. She pushed herself into a sitting position, and he sat up next to her.
“Are you okay? I mean, all right?”
He nodded. “You?”
She nodded. “That was pretty bad. Did you—did you see the helicopter?” He stared at her blankly. She said, “I didn’t either; I heard it. It could be here. It could be in this world. Like the car, only it flies. It could be looking for me.”
“From your world? Through the gordath?”
She stared at him, her hope fading, understanding dawning. If the helicopter came through the gordath, it could only make the earthquakes worse.
“It’s opening the gordath.” She could barely get the words out. “It’s the people on my side looking for me. Flying—” She broke off. “We should get out of here. Who knows when the next flyover will be.” Could a helicopter get through? Or was the earthquake the gordath’s fight against this mechanical intrusion?
She knew one thing; she didn’t want to be around for the next battle.
When Joe arrived at work the day before the gala, Mrs. Hunt waited for him by the entrance to the indoor ring. She carried a pitchfork and wore dirty jeans, heavy boots, and work gloves. Her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail. Joe’s jaw dropped.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said irritably. “It’s my barn. I can muck stalls if I want to.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, shutting his mouth with a snap. But he couldn’t help but grin, until she gave him a quelling look. Abashed, he looked away, noting the freshly mown grass and the tractor lawn mower sitting in the shade. He took another look at his employer, and this time he saw the smile she had a hard time keeping in check.
“I have several odd jobs for today,” Mrs. Hunt said. “We’re using the van as the judge’s office, so it needs to be cleaned thoroughly. Park it over by the main ring when you’ve done. I’ve ordered a load of tanbark for the indoor ring; that needs to be spread and raked when it arrives. I imagine you would use the tractor.”
He nodded. She pulled a list out of her jeans pocket and handed it to him.
“Here are some other small things to get to after those are done. The farm is looking very nice, Joe. I’m sure everything will be splendid for the gala.”
“Thanks,” he said. She picked up her pitchfork and disappeared into the barn, and he stared after her. The compliment was entirely unexpected and sounded a little as if she had to consciously remind herself that the peons needed praise now and again. But it’s a start, he reminded himself. For someone like Mrs. Hunt, who acted as if she was born mannerly, it represented a breakdown in the natural wall she carried around herself like armor.
Wonder what she’s really like?
The thought startled him as much as seeing her mucking stalls did. Joe shook his head at himself and scanned the list. Sagging gates, broken hinges on the grain bins. Little stuff, like she said. Well, he would get the tools he needed from the tool room and get started on the van.
As he fetched his tool kit from the shed, a commotion caught his eye. He looked out the dusty window. Caroline was trying to mount her mare in the drive, and the horse was backing up and bucking in a fit of temper. Both Allegra and Caroline were squealing in rage. Joe rolled his eyes. Might as well just stay up here till it’s over, he thought.
Another rider dismounted and held the horse still for Caroline to clamber into the saddle. Joe shook his head, grinning, and turned to go.
He almost bumped into Mrs. Hunt. She took a step back, then looked out the dusty window, taking in the scene below, giving
him a chance to recover.
“A waste,” she remarked.
“Ma’am?” he asked.
“That horse. That rider. One does not have to be a professional equestrian to know how thoroughly she has ruined that mare.”
I thought they deserved each other, Joe thought, though he kept that to himself. But she glanced at him as if he had spoken and added, “It is never the horse’s fault, remember. And the breed is a good one.”
He nodded, not really sure why they were talking about horses. Everyone knew that Mrs. Hunt was no horsewoman. Rumor had it that she had been set up at the farm by a wealthy patron. For the first time, he wondered if it could even be true.
“I had best be gettin’ back to work, ma’am,” he said. She reached out a hand to stop him.
“Joe.” They were very close, thrown together in the little room so they were barely two feet apart. In the dim light from the window, her pale, elegant features glowed, the plain pony-tail pulling her hair away from her face. “Did—that man, the one you found. Did he say anything?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“I thought not.” She took her hand from his arm, and he had to stop himself from stopping her. “You will tell me if you hear anything.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t sure what she meant. About Lynn? Or the strange man?
“Good.” She turned back to the window, dismissing him, and he watched her for a moment before ducking out to get started on his chores.
As the afternoon drew on, the horse vans began arriving, trundling up onto the lawn in straggling rows. The late afternoon sun threw shadows across the phalanx of trailers and SUVs as Joe threaded through the swelling crowd of horses and horse folk up the drive to the house. Mrs. Hunt stood on the veranda with some of her early guests. She had changed out of her work clothes and wore a slim, elegant dress. She glanced over at Joe as he waited in the shadows on the lawn, and excused herself to meet him. He came out into the sunlight and said, “Everything’s all set, ma’am.”
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